Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (25 page)

At breakfast, she felt ravenous but couldn’t manage a single bite. Her stomach was too fluttery as her eager gaze kept darting toward the door, waiting for a glimpse of him.

He never came. Too soon, her aunt had their things packed, prepared to get an early start on their long journey to Berkshire.

Merribeth didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye or giving Bane her address. She hoped he would call on her. Then, as luck would have it, he descended the stairs, just as she’d decided to leave a note for him.

His gaze collided with hers, never disconnecting for a single step. It was impossible to conceal her joy at the sight of him. Her heart fluttered with gentle tugs, as if theirs were tied together with invisible thread. Had she breathed at all?

He looked handsome in his slate blue coat and buff riding breeches, with his Hessians polished to a regal shine—which was far different from their usual scuffed state, as he spent most of his time at the stables. He even wore a gleaming silver pendant in the folds of his cravat, as if he’d dressed for a very special purpose.

The thread tugged harder on her heart as her mind filled with anticipation. Did he plan on asking her to become his mistress now, before she left?

His gaze dipped lower for an instant and then returned to hers. A grin slowly lifted the corners of his mouth. It was only then that she noticed she’d pressed her hand against her heart. If she weren’t blushing already, she was now, and then even more when he lifted his hand and pressed it to his own heart, as if he were similarly affected.

“Good morning, Miss Wakefield,” he said softly when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Your blush is particularly enchanting this morning.”

She smiled and this time did not conceal the gap behind her fingertips. She doubted she ever would again. “I have no idea what you mean, Lord Knightswold.”

“What a delight,” Eve said, suddenly appearing from the direction of the alcove beneath the stairs. “Just the people I’d longed to see.”

Their hostess appeared to be in very high spirits. However, something about her smile sent a frisson of warning through Merribeth. The only other times she’d seen Eve’s face take on such a look of triumph was when she’d been plotting.

She came forward and took Merribeth by the hand. “You were not thinking of leaving without saying good-bye, were you?”

In the same moment, Sophie reappeared in the doorway, after having directed the placement of their trunks to the driver. “Of course not,” her aunt answered. “You knew I’d wanted to get an early start. I was just about to seek you out and give you our thanks for our lovely diversion. The party was positively splendid and quite successful.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Eve smiled in that peculiar way that unsettled Merribeth. “Come into the parlor for a moment. I have something of great importance to discuss with you, and it cannot wait until our next visit.”

Merribeth looked to Bane as Eve pulled her along. His set features did not put her at ease. “Auntie, surely nothing can be so important as to delay them.”

“Never fear. I want you to be part of this discussion as well.” Though the words were spoken as a request, they sounded far more like a demand.

Even Sophie wore a worried frown when Eve closed the parlor doors. “What’s this?”

Eve gave a flippant gesture, as if this was nothing of consequence. “You know how much I enjoy to gamble. So I just had to tell you of my latest conquest.”

“Of course, but surely another time would be more appropriate.” Sophie looked to the clock on the mantle. “After all, I don’t see what this has to do with—”

“With you?” Eve finished for Sophie. “Not you directly, no. Mostly the wager involves Bane and I, wouldn’t you say, dear nephew?”

“A wager which I lost and you won, so let’s leave it at that,” Bane said, his voice low and ominous. “You have everything you want now. There can be nothing else.”

He’d lost another wager? This was news to Merribeth. Curious, she looked at him, wondering what it could be this time. Though she expected it to be something as trivial as before, when he’d confessed to losing a bet to keep his friends.

“Oh, but that isn’t quite true.” Eve placed her arm over Merribeth’s shoulders and gave her a quick hug before she moved to the center of the room. “The only one among us who’s lost something monumental is our dear Miss Wakefield.”

In an instant, Merribeth went cold. Her lips parted.
Surely Eve can’t be referring to . . . to . . . last night.
Her gaze flew to Bane for reassurance.

His casual air was absent. There was no quick smile. No easy flirtation. Instead, he was hard and closed off, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Eve. Let. It. Go. You’ve won. There’s nothing more to say.”

A wager.
Eve won. The words were starting to sink in but slowly, like the thaw after a harsh winter.

“Not to worry. She already knows how much revenge means to you. How it’s the driving force behind everything you do.” Eve lifted her hand and tapped her finger against her lips. “Hmm . . . I just wonder if she realizes her part. I mean, once you found out Clairmore was the name of the solicitor responsible for all those
dirty deeds
of your grandfather’s—”

Merribeth gasped. William’s father?
No.

“I’m surprised you managed to wait an entire week before you made an example of her. I’m sure the young Mr. Clairmore will be devastated once he discovers the truth. You with your gypsy blood and all, tainting what’s his. And speaking of blood, my maid made an interesting discovery just a moment ago. Imagine my surprise when—”

“I cut myself before I left the stables last night,” Bane interrupted. “I was too exhausted to tend it. Bitters bandaged me this morning.”

Merribeth felt so cold. Everything—every single, life-altering moment—had all been about revenge?

Eve tsked. “How very surprising, Bane. You’re not usually so careless.” She tilted her head and toyed with the blood red stones she wore in each ear. “In the future, you should probably take note of the order in which a woman keeps her jewelry trays when you’re searching for clues to complete your revenge.”

Merribeth kept her gaze on Bane, trying to understand, hoping to see that Eve was wrong.

He stared at his aunt, fury igniting the silver depths of his gaze. “This isn’t the place to discuss the matter,” he growled.

But his response confirmed the terrible accusation at his feet. For Merribeth, every last hope she possessed died. She’d sacrificed everything for one precious moment with him, only to realize that she meant nothing to him. Nothing more than a means to an end. Nothing more than a tool for his revenge.

Worse than losing the chance of spending any kind of future with him, certain or otherwise, her heart and soul were just ripped from her body. They fell into a great void, tearing away from the fibers that had once held them within her, plucking free of each vein like broken threads.

Sophie crossed the room to Eve and slapped her across the cheek. Hard enough to leave a red mark in its wake. “You are despicable. I thought you’d changed.”

“We can never change who we really are,” Eve spat, clutching her cheek. A bright sort of madness lit her gaze. “Scholar that you are, you should have known better. You should have questioned why I’d taken such an interest in helping your niece have her Seasons.”

“I took you at your word, that you’d wanted to make amends.” Sophie’s voice went quiet and broke at the end. “Now, I see you’d planned this all along.”

Eve didn’t deny it. “Since I first learned Mr. Clairmore’s name.”

Merribeth’s hand went to her throat, sure that her heart had stopped beating. There was no answering thump of her pulse. Her fingers were like icicles. Her head spun in a dizzying circle. The plush Persian carpet at her feet seemed to stretch before her, elongating the room to where Bane stood. She felt her knees buckle. Sophie cried out in alarm. But it wasn’t her aunt’s arms she fell into. It was Bane’s.

He lifted her, his face a convincing mask of concern.

She tried to push him away, but she lacked strength. “You never wanted anyone to love you. I see that now. I was a fool.”

“You’re wrong,” she heard him say, but whatever words might have followed, died away as she slipped into blackness.

B
ane took Merribeth and escorted Sophie into the carriage, wanting them free of the spectacle and out of harm’s way. Or at least, out of further harm.

He laid Merribeth on the seat, her head resting on her aunt’s lap. She was breathing steadily as if asleep, yet it was a nightmare, not peaceful slumber, that had claimed her.

Pain like he’d never known burned inside his chest, wrenching his heart into tight, brittle pieces. He wished he knew what to say, if there were words enough to make this better. But there weren’t. No words could heal what he’d done to her. This was his fault. He’d brought this upon her.

“I never wished for this. She deserves better. She deserves . . . everything.” Everything he could never give. For a fleeting moment when he’d awoken this morning, he’d imagined having an entirely different conversation with Merribeth. A very important one.

But that dream was too brief and just as swiftly gone.

“She’ll be fine,” Mrs. Leander said, stroking her niece’s cheek. “After all, she’s survived worse. In the end, we still have each other.”

Without another word, he took one final look at Merribeth and quietly closed the carriage door. The driver set off for Berkshire, leaving nothing more than dust in his wake.

Making love to Merribeth had been more glorious, more profound, than he’d ever thought possible. In those precious moments, he’d had a glimpse of the rest of his life. It was full of smiles—hidden or not—and the wicked arch of the finest brow he’d ever kissed. He’d even imagined children, laughing and riding ponies at twilight to catch fairies. He’d never wanted anything as much as he’d wanted that dream to come true.

But now, that dream turned to dust, kicked up in the wake of her retreating carriage. He knew she would never forgive him.

Bane stared the length of the driveway until each particle settled.

His heart hardened once again. Forged with a new purpose, as he strode back into the manor.

Eve was sitting in the parlor, the papers of their agreement on the wine table beside her. He couldn’t believe he’d been so blind. How could he have not seen that her quest for revenge was equal to, if not greater than, his? The only thing was, she wanted revenge against
him
, not his grandfather. All this time, and he’d never realized.

“So, you’ve gained your revenge at along last. Does it taste sweet, Lady Sterling?”

“Of course,” she said with all appearances of being smug. Yet there was a distinct edge of pain lingering in the corners of her eyes. “I have finally bested the man responsible for taking everything from me.”

“That was my grandfather—”

“No,” she snapped. “It was you. Always you. If you’d never been born, if Spencer hadn’t tried so hard to protect you, none of it would’ve happened.” Her eyes widened for a moment as if even she was appalled at her reasoning. Before she continued, her breath hitched. “I almost lost
everything
. Don’t you see? Centuries of my family’s blood has been spilled to protect this land. Even Spencer’s blood.”

He opened his mouth to argue but closed it just as quickly. There was no victor here, no matter what he could say. They’d all lost something—someone—dear. And he was about to lose more.

Reaching out, he swiped up the contract between them and threw it in the fireplace where low embers suddenly flared to life. He wanted no record of what he’d done, not for his sake but for Merribeth’s. No one at the party must know that she’d selflessly given everything to a man who was unworthy of her.

“You’re not honoring you’re part of the bargain? I should have expected as much from a Fennecourt.” Eve stood and set her claws into his forearm, as if to draw him away from the fire. “Or perhaps it’s your mother’s gypsy blood that makes you more like a thief. I want what’s mine.”

A month ago, he would have shot a man for such slander. But he was no longer that person. Now, he looked at her with pity. She was grasping, he knew, searching for a way to inflict more pain. He let her words slice into him, hoping the overwhelming emptiness he felt would turn to anger.

Unfortunately, it didn’t.

He strode over to the secretaire in the corner of the room and lifted a sheet of parchment from beneath a polished bronze paperweight. The quill he dipped into the ink wasn’t sharp, but it would do the job. As a matter of finality, he signed his full name and title with a flourish.

“The price of my wager.” He held out the document. “Gypsy is yours, along with her foal.”

Without a word, she snatched it, her brow furrowing as she read it over and over again.

“That is the last you’ll ever receive from me,” he said as he walked toward the door. “As of this moment, we are no longer family. We are no longer friends. I will not recognize you in a crowd or accept any invitation of yours. You are nothing to me now.”

And with that final promise, he bowed and left.

He only wished he’d realized the cost of revenge before it was too late.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

“A
nd so it’s done,” Merribeth said, setting down her teacup and saucer on the low table in the Weatherstone’s parlor. “I’ve sold my wedding gown to Forester’s”—she could not bear to see it on display at Haversham’s—“and I’ll begin work as a seamstress once I return to Berkshire after the ball at Hawthorne Manor. All in all, Aunt Sophie and I will manage nicely.”

The past two days in London had been a blur. Merribeth was exhausted and drained, but she couldn’t let herself stop for a moment. She needed to keep going so she wouldn’t fall apart.

Penelope and Emma exchanged a look that Merribeth was only too eager to ignore. Commenting would only bring more questions that she didn’t want to answer. What happened between her and Lord Knightswold would stay hidden in the darkest cupboards of her mind and would, one day, become a long forgotten memory.